


Chasing the Dragonborn

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Oak and Ivy [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bardic Lore, Bards College, Chases, Complicated Relationships, Denial of Feelings, Dragon Fight, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Interview, Near Death Experiences, Non-Canon Relationship, Obsession, Rare Characters, Rare Pairings, Rare Relationships, Wounded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5494526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desperately wanting to interview the Dragonborn for the good of the Poetic Edda, Viarmo the bard discovers that the enigmatic figure has a direct link to his ruined marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing the Dragonborn

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided to post the story as a standalone fic, but it will really make more sense if you read Tending the Flames first.

'There is no glory in this war,' Viarmo said with a sigh, setting down his goblet of spiced wine, which he had barely touched, and gazing out into the blue evening mist. 'No winners to be had and no real conclusion'.  
  
Melaran mumbled something vaguely to show that he agreed; his narrowed eyes were fixed on his kinsman, alight with curiosity.  
  
That bard had recently taken to seeking out his company; together, the two Altmer would while away the long evenings by strolling from the Blue Palace down to the harbour and back again, sometimes pausing on the terrace behind the College, like they had done this time - talking. Always talking. About anything. Politics. The news of the day. Things that amused or annoyed them. Melaran had never thought anyone would be so interested in Erikur's constant failure to understand his sarcasm, or in Sybille Stentor's latest suspicious visit to the dungeons. Not that he minded, of course. It was only too natural for mer stranded in an alien, inhospitable, barbaric land to keep in close touch with one another. Their kind had always been known for forming close-knit communities, be it in the mercenary fortress of Molag Mar, back before the destruction of Vvardenfell, or in the Imperial City, or in the dissident districts in the cities of Hammerfell.  
  
But there was something more here than met the eye... Time and again, when his kinsman fell silent and, deep in thought, seemed to forget about Melaran's presence, he could sense it... Bitterness. Grief. Pain. A burden, deep within his heart, that he sought to lift - by distracting himself with casual conversations with his fellow Altmer. Melaran had heard rumours - those bards found it so hard to keep their mouths shut, even about the private affairs of their Headmaster. Word was out in the street that Viarmo still could not get over his wife leaving him. Melaran wondered to himself if that was true; if it was really possible to be so distraught over the lies of woman - a Dunmer, no less. But Viarmo never mentioned her, and Melaran had never been the one for prying questions.  
  
'Yes, these are dark times we live in,' he said, hurrying to fill the pause in their talk's flow. 'And then there is the return of the dragons... Although I myself find them quite... wondrous'.  
  
Viarmo turned towards Melaran; somewhere in the depths of his dead, weary eyes, a faint glow lit up. 'Dragons are a true opportunity for a bard; I wish I could get a chance to see one up close!'  
  
Melaran bit into his lower lip, his pupils widening. 'Dear friend,' he said breathlessly, pointing towards the dusk-shrouded bay, 'Your wish has been granted!'  
  
  
  
This simply could not be true; this could not be happening. And yet, there it was. A winged blur rushing through the dark towards the city. Viarmo pressed his hand against his throat to push is heart back into his chest. A dragon... _He had lived to see a dragon!_ If only it flew a little closer, close enough for him to see it, to commit it to memory, to enter its detailed description into his part of the Edda!  
  
For the first time in the past few months, he felt alive again. The burning excitement of seeing one of the legendary beings that would change the history of Skyrim forever, the triumph at realizing that he would be the first bard to make a first-hand account of a dragon flying over the capital, the frantic struggle to come up with suitable rhymes - for a moment, it all made him forget about Illa. About her slow, tantalizing smile, her burning crimson eyes, the deep, low, enthralling tone of her voice. Mocked, abandoned, broken-hearted - he was still a bard; and this... This was a bard's paradise.  
  
The great beast soared over the College's terrace and, seeing the two elves gaping at it from below, froze in midair and, opening its mouth wide enough to show uneven, jagged teeth, let out a loud angry roar. This was a warning; but neither of the Altmer friends heeded it, gazing, transfixed, at the intricate pattern on the dragon's webbed wings, at its faintly gleaming scales, at the curved, blade-like spikes on its back. Real. _By the gods, it was real._  
  
_'Wondrous,'_ Melaran mouthed, his fingers gripping at the front of his robes. Viarmo was too overcome with awe; he did not have enough strength even for a nod.  
  
The spell was broken only when the dragon opened its mouth even wider than before, and the stone floor right in front of them erupted into a column of flames. Melaran swayed, passing his hand over his singed eyebrows, and tossed himself on the ground, dragging Viarmo down with him, before the dragon had time to breathe out a second spurt of fire. The beast flapped its wings, its tiny, blazing yellow eyes following the elves' every move. If they got up, would they be able to outrun it?.. Bracing himself for a renewed flame blast, Viarmo closed his eyes, allowing the whole world fade away into darkness, till there was nothing left but the faint tingle in his palms where he had scraped off the skin during the fall, and the hiss-like breathing of the dragon. So much for contributing to the Edda...  
  
The heart-gripping, oppressive silence that had fallen over the terrace was broken by the light sound of boot soles scraping on the stone. Footsteps. Viarmo tore his eyes open and turned his head, as much as he could, sprawled awkwardly on the ground; all that he was able to discern was a faint silhouette, approaching them through the mist, from the direction of the houses opposite the College. The new arrival, whoever it was, was wearing a set of some kind of light armour, close-fitting enough for Viarmo to make out the feminine curves of the stranger's figure, and a broad hood that completely obscured the face. There was a lively, confident spring in the unknown woman's step; she did not seem the least bit unsettled by spectacle unfolding before her eyes.  
  
Strangely enough, the dragon seemed to take an eager interest in the approaching woman; its eyes flashing, it looked away from the two Altmer and, inhaling and exhaling loudly, puffed a few rings of smoke out of its nostrils. The woman stopped, her leather boot now inches away from Melaran's face, rested her hands on her hips - and spoke three short words in an unfamiliar tongue, her voice distorted beyond recognition, sounding almost like the roar of the beast in front of her,  
  
_'Fo! Krah! Diin!'_  
  
Pushing and shoving each other in the ribs, the elves straightened themselves into a sitting position - just in time to behold what almost made Viarmo squeal in excitement like a young apprentice girl.  
  
A gust of icy wind rushed from the woman, guided by her voice, whirling up into the sky, finding the dragon, clawing at its scaly chest... With a short shriek, the beast landed, making the ground quake beneath its weight; there was blood oozing in twisting dark streams down its snout. The fearsome creature of legend was wounded.  
  
And now that it was, there were plenty of those eager to finish it off. Hardly had the two Altmer staggered back to their feet, when the city guards started pouring in, swarming the terrace like hornets flying out of a disturbed nest. They showered the dragon with arrows; some were even bold enough to brandish their axes in front of its snapping jaws; a mail-clad arm shoved Viarmo and Melaran in the back, and a gruff voice ordered from beneath a metal helmet,  
  
'Move along, citizens! Get indoors! We have it all under control!'  
  
As for the mysterious woman... She was gone. But not without one last farewell.  
  
When the guards finally overwhelmed the dragon, and its huge spiked head thudded down onto the stone, fierce eyes sliding shut, the whole body of the great beast suddenly sprung into flames. They ate away at the dragon's hide with a faint, gentle crackle, as though the stone-hard scales were cut out of paper. And when the creature's carcass was exposed, the flames moulded into many-coloured rays of light, like an aurora streaming out of the dragon's now skeletal chest. The light flowed upwards and then somewhere far away, up the deserted street, where, deep in the mist, a small figure stood, watching. The woman that had inflicted the first wound, with her powerful, inhuman, unmeric voice, had lingered behind to see the Solitude guards finish her work. The light embraced her, engulfed her whole; for a few moments, it seemed that there was a pair of glowing, half-transparent dragon wings growing out of her back... Then, after a single blinding flash, the light was extinguished. The stranger turned her back on the dazed onlookers and disappeared into the night.  
  
Viarmo wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, smiling. He had read enough of the local lore to know what he had just witnessed. That woman had Shouted to wound the dragon - and after the guards killed it, she had absorbed its soul.   _Dragonborn._  
  
So there   _was_ some truth in excited whispers he had heard at the tavern tables when, before finding solace in his books and in Melaran's company, he had made several attempts to drown his sorrows... There was a Dragonborn.   _The_ Dragonborn. The reborn legend, revealed in a skirmish near Whiterun and summoned by the Greybeards to High Hrothgar. This had to be written down for the future generations. And who could do it better than him?  
  
  
  
'Good morning, Melaran,' the Dean of History from the Bards' College said, smiling graciously.  
  
The Altmer, who had been walking past him down the street towards the Blue Palace, slowed down and returned the greeting with a curt nod.  
  
'How is your Headmaster, Giraud? I have not seen him for quite some time now'.  
  
The Dean coughed, much too loudly, and took to peeling a speck of dirt off the front of his clothes.  
  
'Well, uhm, Master Viarmo... He spends a lot of time out in the field these days. He has a new pet project'.  
  
  
They had not appointed Giraud Gemaine to teach speechcraft for nothing. Even when flustered, he somehow managed to come up with a fitting euphemism. Pet project indeed. The correct term would have been 'obsession'. Ever since their encounter with the Dragonborn, Viarmo had been unable to focus on anything else. The mysterious woman - what little he could recollect of her, for he had only seen her briefly, first lying on the ground, then being ushered off by the guards - kept visiting him in his dreams. Every time he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, his fingers still instinctively wandering over the empty half of his double bed, she stepped out of the blue evening mist, her hands on her hips, and stood there, haunting his mind, till he awoke. And during the daytime, her voice - or should he say, her Thu'Um - rang inside his head, loud and sharp like the crack of a whip.  
  
He felt compelled to find her, to talk to her, to ask her questions and write down her answers. He had it all planned out. Interview with the Dragonborn. His entry into the Edda. His dreams of bardic glory made reality...  
  
Though there were times when he caught himself thinking, _'No... This is not the reason why I want to meet the Dragonborn... There is something else... Something else...'_  
  
But he did not have time to ponder over what that 'something' actually was. He was too busy travelling across the province, stopping in every village, at every mining camp, every roadside inn. Probing the locals with questions. Had they seen the Dragonborn? Had she killed any dragons? Had they been able to catch a glimpse of her face?  
  
The accounts he succeeded in collecting were frustratingly brief and vague. Rumours. Snatches of second, third, fourth-hand knowledge. No news of an unusual pilgrim on the path to High Hrothgar. No tales of heroic feats. Just dreary stories, repeated in every hold almost word-for-word, of the Jarl putting a bounty on a dragon that was terrorizing the farmers, and of a woman - though some insisted on it being a man - coming to the keep a few days later, tossing a bag full of dragon bones down on the floor and demanding a reward.  
  
But he did not allow himself to be discouraged; he pressed on, pursuing the Dragonborn like a hunter pursues some elusive beast of the wilds. Never stopping, never resting, not even after he began to receive frequent visits from couriers; persistent, nagging like flies, they accosted him, time and again, in the middle of the road, handing him anxious letters from Giraud and Inge. The Deans tried to reason with him, begged him to return, each time more and more vehemently, reminding him that that he had responsibilities, that he was needed at the College. He would shrug their pleas off and use the back of their letters to write down the yet another rendition of the same bounty story he had managed to squeeze out of some reluctant villager. Until finally, seeming to have completely lost her temper, Inge sent him a note consisting of a single hastily scrawled sentence,  
  
_'So we have a stubborn child for a Headmaster._  
  
This short, bitter missive came as a slap in the face - no, a lash at the knuckles with a wooden ruler, Inge's weapon of choice when dealing with lazy apprentices. For a moment, Viarmo came to his senses and, tossing a coin absent-mindedly to the courier, turned his back on the half-ruined Forsworn redoubt he had been hovering around - he had half a mind to approach the wild Reachmen with a query if   _they_ had seen the Dragonborn - and headed home, to Haafingar. But as he was passing the village of Karthwasten, he could not help but make a brief detour. One last interview with the locals would not hurt, now would it? What if....  
  
  
The Orcish miner looked up from the sword she was holding, her fingertips still pressed against the smooth, cold metal. Her mother had forged this weapon, according to the ancient tradition of their people, and each strike of her hammer had rung with shame and anger at her child leaving the stronghold, refusing to accept the role she had been raised for. She had not visited her former home in years; she was not there when the sword took shape, but when she lowered her eyelids, she could see, deep within her own mind, the fierce glare of the forge and the twisted lines of her mother's face. The blade had been passed on to her by a stranger, some wandering elven rogue looking for prey to track down for a bounty; to the elf, it was merely a hunk of metal that she was paid to deliver - but to her, to Lash, it was a message, 'Don't come back'.  
  
It came as no surprise; any Orcish mother would have disowned her child for leaving the stronghold... But still, it was hard to come to terms with. She needed some time alone. To think, to find closure. Not to listen to the ramblings of yet another elf. A vagabond, a useless layabout, too, from the looks of him. Those clothes her was wearing - once fine and posh, now soiled, torn, and splattered with what might have been mud or dried blood. And his face! Wild, haggard, as if he had not slept properly for weeks. What did he want from her again? Dragonborn? What in Malacath's name was a Dragonborn?  
  
'Look, outsider,' Lash groused, her eyes flashing like the steel in her hands; the look on her face made the travel-worn Altmer back off a little. 'If you're looking to get your hide roasted, there's a dragon's nest up in that crater in the wilds. The lizard has a bounty on it, too. Some Dark Elf kid passed through here not long ago; I told her the same thing. She seemed mighty interested in killing the critter. Maybe she's your Dragon-whatever'.  
  
The Altmer let out a loud, hoarse laugh, looking as if it had started raining gold.  
  
'Yes, yes, yes!' he cried out, clapping his hands together. And then, so suddenly that Lash felt as though struck on the head with a greatsword's pommel, he grabbed her hand, coarse, sooty and covered in small cuts from passing her fingers along the edge of her mother's blade - and pressed it against his lips.  
  
_'Thank you,'_ he whispered chokingly; and before the Orc could catch her breath, he was gone down the wilderness path, singing,  
  
'Our hero, our hero claims a warrior's heart,  
I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes...'  
  
Shaking her head violently from side to side and blinking several times, as though to get soapy water out of her eyes, Lash passed the hand that the elf had kissed across her cheek. There was still so much she did not understand in the world beyond the stronghold walls. If this was how men displayed their affection... that elf's woman had to feel very odd. If he had one. Perhaps he did not; no good wife would have allowed her man to run around unarmed when there was a dragon on the loose.  
  
When he raced up to Dragontooth Crater, his heart soaring on invisible wings that carried him forth, light as a feather, he stopped short, waving his hands in the air to keep his balance. The Dragonborn was not there. But the dragon was; curled up in front of a stone wall covered with strange markings, it appeared to be fast asleep. What Viarmo could not see from where he stood, glancing around him in an attempt to figure out what to do next, was the beast's eyes, watching him intently out of the scaly folds of its bronze-coloured snout.  
  
Finally deciding that, since he was no warrior, it would be best to wait for the Dragonborn's arrival from a safe distance, Viarmo made a slow, cautious step back, letting a few loose stones slide down, rustling softly, from beneath the sole of his boot. Bouncing and bumping into one another, the stones rolled right up to the spiked nostrils of the sleeping beast - and then, the dragon raised its head.  
  
  
  
Viarmo shut his eyes for a few seconds and then opened them again. The room was still there. Four walls, floor, ceiling, all made out of blinding white light. The brightness made his head ache. Swaying, wobbly-legged, he made a few groggy steps forward; the white glow ahead of him dissolved a little, revealing a dark blur, vaguely shaped like the figure of a man or mer. Viarmo blinked again. The blur's outline grew clearer; it was a Dunmer, with a deeply lined face and steel-grey hair made into quite an impressive mohawk. He was standing in front an easel, rubbing his furrowed forehead thoughtfully with one hand and drawing what appeared to be some sort of stick figure or other.  
  
He started at Viarmo's approach and snapped irritably, without turning his head,  
  
'Don't even dare say anything, bard.   _Everyone's a critic._ You people in Solitude do not understand real art!'  
  
'D-do... do I know you?' Viarmo asked weakly; of the myriads of questions thrashing against the walls of his skull, this chanced to be the first to break loose.  
  
The Dunmer waved his paint brush in the air vaguely.  
  
'I broke a flower pot over your head while you were making love to my granddaughter,' he said, in evident exasperation. 'I dare say it counts as being at least remotely acquainted'.  
  
Viarmo let out a faint gasp-like sound.  
  
'Modryn? But... _You are dead'._  
  
'And you are dying,' the Dunmer responded, shrugging. 'Same difference'.  
  
Viarmo felt his knees giving way. He did not remember there being any chairs in the room - and yet he had somehow managed to sink into one. As he gripped its arm rests with his hands, they felt solid, and perfectly real... This did not make sense.  
  
'Dying...' he echoed in blank disbelief. 'What do you mean, dying?'  
  
Modryn glanced at him over his shoulder with a snort of contempt.  
  
'Are you serious? After you woke up a sleeping dragon? Don't you remember it catching you in between its jaws, and tossing you around like a pup playing with a rag toy? You body, back down there, is one big gaping wound right now... But at least you kept the thing distracted while my good-for-nothing offspring was playing sneaky archer'.  
  
Viarmo, who had buried his face in his hands, lowered them slowly, and gaped at Modryn, glassy-eyed, uncomprehending.  
  
'Illa...' he breathed, 'She... She is here?'  
  
'No, she is   _there,'_ Modryn said impatiently, pointing at the floor. 'Shooting that oversized lizard full of holes.   _I_ am here. Because I am supposed to watch over her. The little birdbrain keeps getting herself into trouble. If I could, I'd manifest myself to the Greybeards and tell them they picked the wrong kid. Some Dragonborn she makes...'  
  
Dragonborn... So the mysterious stranger that revealed the power of her voice in Solitude, the bounty hunter that was killing off dragons for a reward, the elusive shadow he had been chasing all over Skyrim - was his estranged wife? That would explain his obsession. When she Shouted that night, her voice was like that of a dragon... And yet, somewhere deep within it, he must have subconsciously recognized the soft, subtle notes that had once mesmerized him. The historic interview was an excuse, after all. He just wanted to see Illa again. Without knowing that he did.  
  
What an ironic twist of fate, though. Fit for a novel. If it were not for that terrible breakup... He would have now been married to the Dragonborn. He would have shared a home with a legend. What more could a bard possibly ask for?  
  
His head swimming with all those sudden revelations, Viarmo was about to leap up and grab the otherworldly artist by the front of his paint-splattered apron, demanding the whole story of Illa's new heroic identity. But before he could, the stillness of the white room was shattered by a voice that was neither his nor Modryn's - a woman's voice, coming from somewhere outside this strange glowing space, distorted, echoing, yet so painfully familiar...  
  
_'Viarmo? Viarmo? Wake up! Please! Oh, blast it all, why isn't the spell working?! Viarmo... My love... My life... Don't... don't go... Not like this, Viarmo... Please, not like this... I can't lose you... forever...'_  
  
Viarmo bent in two, gripped by vice-like pain. The white light around him faded; the room rushed away, and darkness came pouring in like inky water, splashing around him, sweeping over him, drowning him. The last thing he remembered was the stunned look on Modryn's face as the worthy Dunmeri ancestor was being whisked off together with the white room - and the voice, Illa's voice, ringing inside of him, repeating over and over,  
  
_'Viarmo... My love... My life...'_  
  
  
  
Viarmo jerked awake, screaming silently, drenched in sweat. It was early evening; he could see the crimson blaze across the sky as he lay on his back, dry grass blades tickling his cheek. His back felt soft, as if he was lying atop a makeshift bedroll - perhaps made out of animal pelts - but he could not be sure. He attempted to move - and bit into his lips, pierced by thousands of needles of pain. Looking down, as far as he could, he discovered that almost every inch of him was bandaged; as he took a deep breath of the crisp, earthy air, he caught a whiff of a healing potion.  
  
'Alive,' he said slowly to himself, rolling that word around his tongue with a peculiar kind of new-found pleasure.  
  
'Hush now, save your strength'.  
  
He felt his heart contract. Illa. It was sheer elation to hear her speak, this time loud and clear, down here on Nirn, in the waking world.  
  
She came up to him and knelt beside him; he could sense her hand stroking his face.  
  
'Silly, silly boy,' she murmured, her voice alive with her usual mildly mocking, mischievous tone. 'Did they not teach you it's bad to go poking around dragon lairs?.. Shh; don't speak'.  
  
She must have seen his lips twitch... He spoke anyway.  
  
'All I wanted...' he whispered hoarsely, gazing up into her face, 'Was a few words with the Dragonborn... For the Edda...'  
  
Her hand froze on his cheek; she turned away from him.  
  
'The Dragonborn does not deserve being mentioned in the Edda,' she said, sounding as if in pain. 'She is no hero; she has not gone to the Greybeards to learn their lore. She is a rogue, a treasure hunter; she kills dragons for the bounty - and to sell those bones and scales. She has always been this way. Always about money. About personal gain. That night, when her... _former_ husband and his friend were almost killed by a dragon, she was in town on a job for the Thieves Guild; that was why she kept to the shadows - lest the guards capture her. And today, too, she was merely out bounty-hunting, when...'  
  
Wincing with pain, Viarmo slowly lifted his hand to his face and locked his fingers with hers.  
  
'As I lay here,' he said, swallowing, 'I thought I heard you say...'  
  
'You were delirious,' she cut him short abruptly. 'I said nothing. I will stay with you until your wounds are healed well enough to get you out of here; then, I'll take you to Solitude and, gods willing, we will never see each other again. I have another life now. A life without you. Good people like you have no place in the Ratway'.  
  
_The Thieves Guild... The Ratway..._ Those words hurt more than the strain of moving his limbs. So that was what he had lost his Illa to... But no matter what she said, he knew he had not been delirious. At least, not entirely; he did have his doubts about Grandpa Modryn and his unacclaimed masterpiece.  
  
'But you will stay with me for now, won't you?' he asked.  
  
She turned towards him again, her expression unusually sincere and earnest.  
  
'I will. I promise'.  
  
He parted his lips in a faint smile, 'Then... _Kiss me'._  
  
She raised her eyebrows in astonishment - but only for a couple of seconds; then, her eyes narrowing to slits of blazing lava, just as he remembered, she leaned down, taking care not to disturb the bandages, and pressed her open mouth against his. As their tongues, thirsty, quivering, danced together, calling forth long-forgotten memories of each other's taste, a fleeting thought flashed through Viarmo's mind. He suddenly felt happy that he had not taken his wedding band to be disenchanted, as Illa suggested when they got separated. What he did not know, and was highly unlikely to ever find out, was that she had not disenchanted her ring either.


End file.
